


Impending Grenade

by mischiefandmagic



Series: The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, another one i wrote for a friend of mine, as you can tell by loki still doing reckless and stupid shit, this comes way before let us go then into our future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefandmagic/pseuds/mischiefandmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki's still doing stupid and reckless shit (like he's known to do) behind Everly's back. He returns home late one night and finds Everly in the oddest position, fast asleep. Cute and slightly dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impending Grenade

Such a long day. He hadn’t meant to be away for so long. Some very much unexpected complications had occurred and he had to deal with each and every one. It was an oversight he planned to never make again.

But he was home once again. Here in this suitably spacious house. Just right, just for both of them.

And speaking of which...

He looked up from his place where he was leaning against the back of the couch. On the island was a small pile of what he assumed to be mail. It was hard to tell in the darkness of the room. Only the dim light of the waning moon his light, or rather what little he had of it. Next to the small stack of mail was a plate of- What was that?

He finally pushed himself away from the couch and walked over to the island to get a better look. It was- He suddenly burst into a round of breathless chuckles. It was a plate of cookies, saran wrapped with a sticky note on top. Written in black ink, in her own handwriting, it read: Happy Birthday, my King

He softly smiled. Touched by her kind act of thoughtfulness. Of him. Of the day Rachel had “randomly” designated as his birthday.

He sighed. Oh, yes. Rachel. He would have to pay her a visit tomorrow. She would undoubtedly be irked about him not showing up on his appointed birthday. Thankfully, he had something - a gift of sorts - he could mollify her with.

But she most certainly would not be the only one he would need to mollify. Everly would unquestionably be angry with him for not being with her on his birthday. Another sigh escaped his lips. The next few days, possibly even the upcoming week, would be difficult. And perhaps even unforgiving. Everly he was still uncertain of how she would react. Rachel would hang it over him for at least the next following week. How long she would hold her grudge was not as easily foreseeable or calculable.

Seeing as he was already home, it would be much easier to apologize to Everly (and more convenient - he had no intention of facing Rachel’s ire at the moment, not with how exhausted he was). With one last exhale of breath, he heaved himself and his weight fully back on his feet, pushing himself away from where leaned against the island’s counter.

Step by step, he made his way slowly but surely down the hall. Both his feet were heavy, showing only just how drained he was. Not to mention how every step he took it felt like he was he walking on sharp swords. (The memory of Rachel telling him the small but interesting piece of trivia about how in the original story of The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson the mermaid, upon obtaining human legs, constantly felt like she was stepping on sharp swords “hard enough to make her feet bleed most terribly” - as Rachel had recited from Wikipedia, her only “trusted” source, in pure laziness and utter connivence of course - floated through his mind.)

Finally- Thank the Norns! Finally, he found himself at the threshold of the their bedroom door. Which had been left wide open, he assumes forgotten in the daze of her own exhaustion. She wasn’t too far off. Although, she was certainly not where he expected her to be (laying asleep on the bed). Instead, his eyes had landed on the slumped form, sitting on the floor. Her complete upper half was slouched as she lay up against the side of the bed. Her head leaned far back as it could, laying on the top of the bed. Her legs stretched out before her. Her shoes chucked to the side. But it was the state of her feet that made the corners of his lips turn up as much as they could (despite being utterly tired). Oddly enough, one foot still had a sock on while the other did not. He spotted the matching twin near the discarded shoes.

With a breathless chuckle, he trudged forward once again. This time, rather, with the intent of assisting his dear beloved darling into bed. The way she currently “lay” seemed rather uncomfortable. So, upon finally standing next to her sleeping form, he carefully picked her up, laying her atop the bed. Accommodatingly, he took the other sock off, tossing it in the direction of her shoes and it’s matching twin. Finally, he grabbed the closest edge of the comforter - which he just then noticed had already been pulled back - and tugged it, bringing it over his sweet, sweet love, and over her shoulders. She immediately turned onto her side, facing him. Ever so softly (with a small smile on his face) he brushed his lips against her forehead. “Sleep well, my Love,” he sweetly whispered in her ear.

Careful not to wake her, he moved away from the bed and to the restroom. Once inside, he discarded, piece by piece, of his armor and his Asgardian garb. Gently, so as to make no sound, he laid piece by piece down on the floor in pile. He stripped down until not a piece of garment was on him. And he stood in front of the sink, of the mirror, stark nude, not a care in the world of his bare state.

His hands gripped the edge of the counter as he leaned forward - partially because he could barely bare his full weight, partially because he wanted to take a good look of himself in the mirror.

 _Mirrors do not lie_ , a voice somewhere deep from within his mind whispered. And it did not. The mirror showed him who he really was. The liar, the mass murderer, he truly was. Dried blood stuck to his face, from where it flowed down the left side of his face. His lip was split. There was no use for revelations. He knew the truth. This was him. He would never change.

Not the first time that day, he licked his lips. There was a slight sting from his split lip, but other that and the dried blood on his face, he was fine. He took a deep breath in, letting it all slowly out, before muttering a few words in old Norse. Instantly, his split lip was healed, the blood on his face gone. He sighed and shifted his weight. Another couple of words in old Norse and his clothes disappeared. Simultaneously, a pair of boxers materialized on him. With one last lick of his lips, he quietly made his way back to the bed, this time going around to the other side. He slipped under the covers, shifting himself closer to her so as to spoon her, and wrapped an arm around her, entwining their fingers together. With one last kiss in hair, he whispered, “I love you. For as long as I may live, my dear sweet Everly.” He snuggled his face into the crook of her neck, quickly soon losing himself to the oblivion of sleep.


End file.
